this time

this time depression

dressed in sexy knickers
so he had trouble spotting it.

when he was with her

they laughed till they cried,
then he went home

and cried some more.

he couldn’t tell her,

she might think it was
her fault.
and it wasn’t,
it was definitely not.

so he took his fight

to the canvas
pouring his resources
into his art supplies
and eating at
his parents house.

this time depression

dressed in sexy knickers

and kept him warm at night.

travelling to noarlunga with secrets

it was a long way

on public transport

stretched with secrets.

they sailed the back of the bus,

she liked what it did to the

bottom half of her body

and he was beyond caring.

he told her where he was going

but not what was happening.

he told her he had

“feelings”

he needed help with.

things he did not like were

making him….what?

don’t dare tell her that.

where were the words for the

woman who rocked him to sleep

with a violent hand, who

haunted his dreams with

her foot on his throat.

it was a long way

on public transport

stretched with secrets.

fan mail for daniel

if i painted you a picture
i'd use lots of black paint
and red, and brown
because life is shit.
i'd use a fat brush
and lots of strokes
to show i know that you are complex,
made up of many parts.

if i sang you a song
i couldn't sing in tune,
wouldn't need to,
i'd just have to yell a lot
with passion to sound like that
nihilistic shit you listen to.

i have written stories for you,
sunk low then lower to impress you
your loyalty drags us all along -
you and your crew, we rise and fall together.

you are my brother from another mother,
you are strong like ten men
and stunted as a puppy runt,
you are clever like a dictionary
and feral as a fine porn mag.

you taught me men can feel, and listen,
your happy ending gives
me the strength to go on.

the paroxysm editing team - thank god the pretty one's holding the camera

there are writers all over the world

there are writers all over the world. there are writers all over the world. there are writers all over the world. there are writers all over the world. there are writers all over the world. there are writers all over the world. there are writers all over the world. the world is round. there are writers all over the world. the world is round. there are writers all over the world. the world is round. sometimes writers slip. there are writers all over the world. the world is round. sometimes writers slip. the world is round. there are writers all over the world. writers slip sometimes. with their words with their feet with their mouths with their tongues. with drugs with booze with self abuse, in shit inside & in their heads. writers slip sometimes. there are writers all over the world.writers slip. with knives with pipes, with fixings. writers slip. with bookies with pokies with loan repayments. the world is round. sometimes writers slip. there are writers all over the world.

e.e...

falling in love
with him and e.e
cummings
at the same time.
trouble was e.e
was the only
one cumming.

haiku 3.

on distant nightmares
the sandman changes trousers
and surfs back, dreaming.

haiku 2.

when questions are asked
the chainsaw does not know why
accidents happen.

haiku 1.

around tank blank walls
people paper poetry,
literary fightback.

good speed son

hanging with elemental boy,
stretch till it hurts
(it always hurts but that's
his lesson to learn).
then he navigates
a different passage
wrangling the unruly stallion
into understanding.

straddled in the middle world
where black and white turn
murky grey while
gazing at the miasma
of adulthood.
he knows there are things
he doesn't want to know
but cant stop wanting them.

he teaches me
my boundaries
and inconsistencies,
reflecting me in a way that
terrifies and amazes. he
amazes me constantly
and we love
the story so far.

suburbia 7

she has a habit of headbutting her shadow
long enough to remember the amnesia
that put her in these calipers of
self medication and despair.
because unlike the television
where incidents of tragedy lead to
true love and happily ever after,
the only road that she can see is down
and the devil has welcoming eyes.

the moments before

the darkness sets in.

underneath his skin and behind his eyes

lay the truth that no one would ever imagine.

it had clawed at him for years, but on this night, in

this absolute darkness he was

ripped from a dreadful headline -

he could no longer suppress the need. 

pressure.

cranial fluids

seep from his ears and 

from his tear ducts.

he stared at himself in the puddle

watching, drip. drip. drip and disappear in the oily sludge.

like some lynch movie the fog set in

and insane confusion followed.

suburbia 4

the man next door has a tic in his eye and a slack jaw

from his constant masturbation and chronic alcoholism'

he knows she knows it.

he pretends to be interested, hides his insecurities

with laughter and likes to scream for no reason.

he fears everything – and brings some sugar.

since anything is better than nothing

disturbing fantasies will follow her for years to come.

the storm before the calm

the thunder is coming so i hunker down to the approaching storm. thoughts trip quickly as the atmosphere thickens with the weight of nothingness and i fear i may have miscarried the lord there is so much blood and so little evidence. so you could be the best abortionist in town, but how do i tell you that your services are no longer required?

fear of exposure and unexplained metaphors. haunted by voices until last monday i nearly gave the whole game away. there is a hunger/not in my guts/but in my soul/and substance abuse/doesn't cut it anymore/and cutting it... so you could be the best psychiatrist in town but how do i tell you i want to be in the front seat when the accident happens?

so with wet expectations i unbelieve my body and focus on the moments when i am perfection in the company of others, slowly learning to seize more moments. and i will make my heart the moon, fill it with dreams of a better life and resolve to trace my pirate roots. so you could be the best meteorologist in town but how can i tell you that it's all just gypsy fortune telling?

 

 

 

those moments

it's in those moments

when i'm caught

between touching you, and

not touching you

and finding out that the truth

doesn't always move

the narrative along -

that my life takes on the

orchestration of a car accident.

it's in those moments

when i keep finding the wrong

way to express myself

that i get the feeling i'm

a tourist here,

in my own town

in my own home

in my own bed.

its in those moments

when i'm pushing

myself too far, but somehow

it's never far enough,

and the burden of

carrying ugly

is just a knife slice

short of too heavy...

it's in those moments.

three jars of chocolate sauce

george clooney is not coming to visit me tonite

but i recreate my arrival using a broom, two shopping bags,
a dildo and a large akubra hat.

george clooney is not coming to visit me tonite

so i take down the tinsel and the streamers and

put my nakedness back in the bottom of the wardrobe and

i slip into a kind of nothingness that long ago forgot its name.

george clooney is not coming to visit me tonite

so i argue with myself over the pills or the blade

knowing that i'll wake up in the morning and i go to the kitchen

for a spoon to eat the three jars of chocolate sauce that

i was saving for his penis.

george clooney is not coming to visit me tonite

so i go outside and howl at the moon who is not listening,
and my mind boils like a kettle, and my belly aches with the
longing of the unconceived (the unasked) and i undo the hope
that this could ever end.

george clooney is not coming to visit me tonite.

stud boy

what are you playing at stud boy?

looking at me with those small, dark eyes

and that tall, spiky hair of yours.

just what are you getting at?

what's the story, stud boy?

standing there so slick and shiny and

spouting the anarchy that matches

the patches on your army pants.

and what are the studs

about anyway?

okay stud boy

put your ego where your

zip is, and your hand on

this stud, stud boy.

not so brave with the lights out

are you stud boy?

didn't know that your stud cuffs

could cut the skin when they're

tight around the bed post,

did you stud boy?

chin up stud boy.

chin up so I can tighten
your collar.
don't worry, it's real leather,
only the best for you, stud boy.

where did you go stud boy?
now all ive got left is
dud boy.
so long stud boy.

generalisations

he hated generalisations.
he tried so hard to be
a good man,
a kind man,
(keep bad at bay).
“all men are bastards”
she would say.
it made him want to be
an arsehole with her.

they played

they played word games
and dice games,
gambled for sex acts
and painted the fridge
in primary colours.

they shared books and beers,

laughed at toilet humour,
hung out of windows and
drank coffee by the bucket
full around the kitchen table.

they told jokes about

serial killers, made

love on the beach,

shopped at markets and

yelled abuse at television

personalities and right wing politians.

 

they had parties,

ate at friends houses,

kept spare change

in a jar and smoked joints

in the reeds of the cities river.

they caught trains

for no reason,

waited at staitions,
told stories of their pasts
and slowly wove their
futures together.

they had fantasies

to fulfil, but
neither if them
were working to
a timetable.

normal

in the early days,

the hay days,

the “hey get here and

fuck me” days

when she would

and he would

they felt indestructible

they felt teflon coated

they felt they had

climbed aboard an

invincible narrative

of eternal back rubs

and sex for no reason.

it was the stuff of soap operas

so love was muttered

under the covers then

over breakfast, and

normal was not a word

they thought about

because they were.

you're not the only icon to make this country great

bush man pushing dirty dogs to droving,

cattle on the run in a hard man's land.

red sun keeps setting, bush man keeps betting

the money that he's making will see him through the dry.

so i plucked the fucker from the landscape

and threw his skinny white arse in the nearest billabong.

i think that's where i left him.

muscles meeting meltdown as his axe arcs swiftly,

trees disappearing as his hard hacks hit.

never seeing forward, life turned into floorboards,

destruction can be easy when you’re told what's right.

so i plucked the fucker from the landscape and

catapulted his skinny white arse into some old growth forest.

i think that's where i left him.

cocky is the farmer who surveys his harvest,

tossing up his bales as the stacks rise high.

horizons never ending; but he doesn't do the mending

so the harsh brown land keeps spreading and the salt levels rise.

so i plucked the fucker from the landscape and

strapped his skinny white arse to the top of his tractor

then made crop circles till sunset in his golden fields.

i think that's where i left him.